


Mysterious Mister Minister

by RebrandedBard



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, EDIT: now with beta, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kinda, M/M, Melitele - Freeform, Minister!Jaskier, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religion, Secret Identity, Secret Marriage, St Valentine AU, Valentine's Day, no beta we die like men and get our shit wrecked in the comments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29459304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard
Summary: There are many stories about this mysterious minister, Brother Julian, who conducts the marriages of star-crossed lovers in secret. Geralt happens to overhear gossip about a marriage performed by Brother Julian just after leaving the town in which the marriage was performed. The Brother is wanted by the church for conducting unlawful marriages. It occurs to Geralt that Jaskier never steps foot in a church ...alt; St. Valentine AU where Jaskier becomes a minister in secret to marry his sister and her lover against their family's wishes, then goes galavanting around to perform gay marriages while he avoids being found out. Geralt finds out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 180





	Mysterious Mister Minister

Most everyone knows to be wary of cherubs and cupids come the month of February when the ices break and spring awakens the attitudes and appetites of all living creatures. The season of romance is upon the people once more, and the guard is up for those in the higher social circles when parties and warm weather allow for the voracious youths to mingle. Spring, as ever, is the season of scandal, and well brought up ladies and gentlemen must be made accountable. As such, it is popular for marriage arrangements to be made in the late autumn. The retreat indoors for the winter allows for a respectable mourning period for those unlucky in their matches to drown alone in their tears, bundled away out of sight in their chambers, weeping into their extra coverlets where they cannot make disgraces of themselves in polite company. The winter gives them time to cope with the horrible reality of spring and the forthcoming ceremonies.

But there was one of nobility for whom spring held no terrors. Something of a legend, the youth was. In one story, he’d escaped from his engagement in the dead of winter. Some say he stowed away in an old church and was absorbed into the clergymen, worshipping the order of Melitele, patroness of fertility and birth. Some say he became a minister, overseeing all marriages in hope of avoiding his own. Such a conclusion would be so deliciously ironic, and many chose to believe in that version most. Other accounts spoke of his dying a tragic death, casting himself into the sea rather than face life bound in a loveless marriage. Others still would claim that he was forced from his home, stripped of his title, and doomed to wander the Continent in starvation for bringing shame upon his father’s house. These were all very tragic and romantic tales, and while they each ring with a bit of truth, none of them quite find the mark.

Jaskier sighed, watching the new couple walk in procession through the streets of town, flowers strewn before them from the crowd. Friends, family, and neighbors all gathered together in celebration, and he was lucky enough to watch them go by, sharing in the glow of their happiness. It was one of the nicer stops they’d had along the Path, and so early in the season.

“I think,” he said, turning to Geralt with dreamy eyes, “that this must be the first wedding of the year. The snow hasn’t finished melting yet on the far hills.” It was also the earliest he’d ever known Geralt to come down from the mountain. Jaskier had arrived early in Kaedwen, never expecting to find Geralt at their usual place so soon.

Geralt hummed, shrugging at the lively parade. “Probably,” he replied.

“I love weddings,” Jaskier continued. “Like to have one someday. To stand there at the altar, under the light of the stained glass, to say a few pretty words and be bound in love forever. Or even in a broken-down church in some backwoods village. Even at a shrine carved in a tree or stacked in crumbling stone. Doesn’t matter much where.”

Geralt looked at the crowd, at Jaskier. “You ought to propose, if you’re so keen. All the people who let you tumble into their bed, surely one would want commitment.”

Jaskier shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid it isn’t so simple as that.”

“And why not?”

“Oh, the usual reasons,” he answered vaguely.

“Afraid of commitment?” Geralt suggested. He smirked at Jaskier as the last of the people went by. The road clear at last, he crossed, Jaskier slogging along behind.

Jaskier sighed, watching the backs of the people retreat, going off to what would doubtlessly be a wonderful reception. “I’m committed to _you,_ aren’t I? Trust me, commitment isn’t the issue.” He reached out and petted Roach’s side, let her sniff at his hands curiously.

Geralt had smelled the tang of sadness rolling off of Jaskier for hours now. He’d gone off on a hunt, only to return to Jaskier staring wistfully at the wedding party gathered outside of the little church. If he liked, he could easily slip in among the guests or offer to commemorate the marriage with a song. Nobody would turn him away, rather, they’d be glad of the company. But Jaskier never did encroach on the festivities. Not to flirt with the odd bridesmaid or to steal a few free drinks. He kept clear of weddings, watching from afar.

“So what _is_ the issue?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier shrugged. “Lack of foresight. Blind devotion. A dash of resignation,” he listed. “All that and a sprinkling of the gods’ misplaced favour.”

“Jaskier, you’re being nonsensical.”

“Good. I should very much hate to make any sense of this subject.” He strode ahead, skipping with a lightness of heart Geralt knew he did not currently possess. “Come along! I want to be out of this town by the end of the hour and on to the next before we bump into a clergyman.”

“Afraid of being added to his matrimonial headcount?” Geralt joked.

“Precisely. It would kill me. So be a good friend, spare me my precious life, and get a move on. I tire of these wedding bells. They were already deafening inside the church; I fear my ears will be ringing long after they stop pulling the rope.”

It did not occur to Geralt until they lay at camp that night why Jaskier should ever have been _inside_ the church, being one to avoid them so often. It was something he’d noticed over the years. There were times when he was called upon to expel some creature from a churchyard or crypt that was not repelled by the hallowed ground. One day, he’d taken a larger threat than usual, and with a sigh had been grateful that Jaskier never accompanied him to churches. The realization had struck him then without notice. When asked, Jaskier had simply answered that he was not of the faith—of _any_ faith, really. Or else he would say that graveyards and tombs gave him horrible dreams. He had a book of excuses he kept up his sleeve and used to expertly avoid the topic.

A week later, they arrived in a village the hour church had finished conducting the morning ceremony. People were slowly filling the little road, on their way home. Casually, Geralt steered them towards it. It took Jaskier a few minutes to realize they were not headed toward the pub.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, Geralt?” he asked, lingering behind. “Were we not going to see the publican to ask about any contracts? You know, at the _pub?_ Where are you going?”

“Church. Half the town is still inside. Likely won’t be at the pub for another hour. You know how chatty rural people are after mass.”

“Brilliant. We can get a pint and rest while we wait,” Jaskier said. He clapped his hands and began to walk in the opposite direction.

Geralt grabbed his elbow and tugged him back again. “The pub will be closed,” he grunted. “Who do you think will be pouring your drink?”

“Erm. Well, shouldn’t we find a room? I could scout us a place at the inn.”

“Village is too small. There’s no inn. Pub has a few rooms to let.”

“But,” Jaskier concluded, “the publican isn’t in at the moment. So …”

Geralt nodded. “Church.”

Jaskier shuffled his feet, looking up the dirt road. He fiddled with the strap of his lute case uneasily.

“Unless you’d rather not go,” Geralt said, eyeing him carefully. “Is there any particular reason you’d like to avoid coming along?”

“I’m … a blasphemer?”

Geralt snorted. Taking pity, he handed Jaskier the reins. “Here. You can find a spot of grass for Roach. I’ll look for you after.”

The relief was clear in the slump of Jaskier’s shoulders. “I’ll find the very best, sweetest grass in all the village!” he proclaimed. He gave Roach’s reins a gentle tug and the two of them could not get away fast enough.

Geralt found them twenty minutes later sitting by a stream at the edge of the village. No contracts. However, on his way out of the church, he caught wind of a bit of gossip from the choir. Evidently, one of them had a sister in town who’d been married by the elusive Brother Julian in the last week. The girl looked familiar, and he wondered if her sister’s wedding was not the one they’d happened upon before.

“But I thought he was a minister. Is he not Reverend Julian?” one girl asked.

Her friend nodded solemnly. “He is a special case. His is called Brother in honour of his circumstances. He is the brother of every lonely girl, and we are his sisters. His first ceremony, he married his sister to her lover in secret. That is how the story goes.”

“No!” protested a third. “He is called Brother Julian because he swore an oath in blood to be brothers with his best friend. The poor man died before his wedding day and his lover wept over his corpse until Brother Julian married her to him in spirit. He is the patron saint of tragic lovers.”

The priest clapped his hands loudly behind them, startling all. He pointed a stern finger at the three. “There will be no discussion of Reverend Julian,” he said. “He is no romantic hero. He’s a trickster and a runaway; he took the holy vows as a means to his own ends. If Melitele has not already served him justice, he is sure to fall under her hand in time.”

This did not deter the whispering girls, only serving to strengthen their curiosity. As Geralt left, they followed after, whispering in the yard once more.

“So, he _is_ more than a legend.”

“I heard once that he became a minister to officiate his own wedding when his family would not give their consent. He now wanders the Continent with his lover to avoid capture.”

“That must be the reason! Oh, what a tragic fate. Sweet, merciful Melitele. I will pray she looks kindly on him. She is said to be soft of heart in matters of love.”

He’d been thinking of the phrase all the walk out. When he found Jaskier, he sat beside him on the bank of the stream, legs dangling on the ledge. “Do you know much about Melitele?” he asked.

Jaskier looked at him in surprise. He’d been strumming his lute until then, and he stopped. “I know a great deal about her. What would you like to know?”

“I heard someone say your phrase, ‘Sweet, merciful Melitele.’ Is that not something you made up?”

“Oh, Melitele, no!” Jaskier laughed. “That’s a saying in the faith. It’s a sort of prayer, like saying ‘bless you’ when someone sneezes or ‘saints preserve us’ when something shocking happens. Common phrases.”

“Hm. I thought you weren’t a man of the faith.”

“I’m not. Doesn’t mean I’m ignorant. She’s prevalent wherever you go.”

Geralt leaned back as Jaskier began to play once more, strumming the strings in a light melody. He listened politely awhile. It was a relaxing scene, Roach cropping the grass behind them, the stream gently bubbling before them. He lay back and closed his eyes. It had been a nice day, the day of the wedding, and the early spring breeze had been unusually warm, as it was now. It reminded him of the sister.

“I met the sister of the bride from the last town,” he said. “They were talking in the church about some reverend who performed the ceremony. A Brother Julian. Some … ”

The sudden silence at his side disturbed him. He opened his eyes and saw Jaskier had gone pale, his hands frozen on the instrument.

“… romantic figure,” Geralt concluded.

Jaskier resumed playing as if there’d been no pause. “I’ve heard of him,” he said dismissively.

Geralt was no fool. He knew that Jaskier knew more than he was saying. “What version of the story have you heard? Apparently there are many. He’s some sort of myth.”

“It’s a lot of stuff.”

“Stuff and nonsense; your favorite kind of story.”

“Not this nonsense,” Jaskier grumbled.

“You avoid churches.”

“I never have the funds for the collection basket.”

“You duck under the table when you see a priest in a pub,” Geralt accused.

Jaskier waved his hand. “They’d have me marry a girl for _kissing_ her out of wedlock!”

“What was that name you said once? Something-Alfred Pankratz?”

 _“Don’t,_ Geralt,” he warned.

Geralt ignored him. “Wasn’t it Julian?”

Jaskier set his lute aside and rolled over, caging Geralt beneath him with his arms. He glared down at him. Next thing Geralt knew, Jaskier had a fist full of his shirt and yanked him upright to meet his eye.

“What,” Jaskier hissed, “do you _want?”_

It was a rare thing for Geralt to be startled. He blinked at Jaskier, too surprised to be impressed that he’d managed to drag him upright with one hand.

“Nothing,” he answered honestly. “Just curious.”

“Well _don’t_ be curious. And don’t say that name so loud.”

“Then are you?”

Jaskier released him roughly and turned back to the stream. “If I am? What, did the priest ask you to keep an eye out for me? I’d fetch a good price. Won’t make it easy for you though.”

“Don’t be stupid. If I turned you in for a reward, you’d never let me hear the end of it. You’d sneak out of whatever cell I put you in just to come berate me for putting you there in the first place. It isn’t worth the trouble.”

Geralt could feel the air relax around Jaskier. The salty smell of anger dissipated.

“I would,” Jaskier agreed. “I’d shout at you until you lost hearing in both ears.”

Geralt chuckled and turned over on his elbow. “So then. What _is_ the story?” he asked.

“If I tell you, what will you give me? Many people wish to know the true story, and many of them would pay and arm and a leg to hear it. I won’t give it to you just because it’s you asking.”

“What would you have of me?”

“Many things. All of them costly.”

Geralt gave his pockets a perfunctory pat. “No contract today,” he replied.

“Very well, we’ll play a game.” Jaskier picked up his lute and gave it a dramatic strum. “If you can guess which version is most true, I’ll tell you. You have three guesses. If you guess wrong, you’ll never learn the truth from me and you never ask again.”

Geralt considered, plucking at a blade of grass. A moment passed between them, Jaskier cocking his head to one side in confusion. Geralt leaned back to look him in the eye again. “Is it really something you’d rather not talk about?” he asked. “It isn’t something I need to know.”

“I think I’d like to tell you. If you don’t mean to use it against me, there’s no harm. But you do promise it is only idle curiosity that motivates you.”

Geralt nodded, crossing the plucked blade of grass over his heart.

“Alright then. First gues—”

“On second thought,” Geralt interrupted. “I’ll tell you a secret in exchange. I’m not much good at guessing games.”

Jaskier perked up slightly. His usual playful attitude slowly came to the surface. “What kind of a secret?” he asked.

“A secret about witchers. About how we’re made. I’ll tell you something about how we’re made witchers if you tell me how you were made a minister.” It was still such a far-fetched idea, Jaskier being of the clergy. This hedonistic, indulgent, peacock of a man in a black robe, giving a sermon? He couldn’t begin to imagine.

Jaskier held out his hand. “Deal. You tell first.”

Geralt gave it a shake. “I died during the trials,” he said. He could feel Jaskier’s pulse jump through his hand. He released it with a smug grin. “All witchers die in the trials. Our hearts stop beating for minutes at a time once we’re given our mutations. It’s a kind of birth, they say. We awaken as something new. I went through an extra, experimental set of trials. I died a second death—the longest of any on record. They thought I’d well and truly died. They were dragging my body to a pyre when I took my first breath.”

“Good lords,” Jaskier whispered, eyes wide.

“Now tell me, Brother Julian; why did you join the church? Trying to find a way to sneak into a nunnery?”

Jaskier flicked his nose in retribution. “I may have joined under false pretenses,” he confessed, “but my intentions were pure in nature.”

Geralt threw him a sarcastic look.

Jaskier pushed his face aside with a huff. Once again, he set his lute in the grass. When next he spoke, he faced toward the stream, bending over the edge to look at its gently flowing waters.

“I loved my sister very much,” he began. “She was the only real family I had in that house. My parents made a poor match and they weren’t especially caring or nurturing.” He glanced at Geralt with a shrug. “Arranged marriages can be a blessing or a curse at times.”

Geralt thought of the stories he’d heard that day. If he’d guessed from the three he knew, he might have won, he supposed. That would have been lucky.

“My parents arranged a match for my sister: some wealthy neighbor with a better title. We thought she’d be the second of us to marry. I was firstborn and there was more pressure for me to find a mate to carry on the legacy. Perhaps I’d been too disinterested in children. Whatever reason, they decided to sell her off like cattle at auction the year she came of age. Trouble was, she already had a sweetheart. Low born.”

“That’s the way it always is,” Geralt hummed.

Jaskier nodded. “They wouldn’t hear a word of protest. So, I had to do something. If she simply ran away, there would be no rest for her. She would be hunted down and brought to the altar. The poor girl was too young to survive in the world alone, even with him at her side.

“I begged the clergy to appoint me as minister,” he said. He reached down, touching the edge of the water with his fingers. He brought his wet fingers to his lips and kissed them as the priests did during ceremonies. “I told them that my sister would not marry willingly but by my word. I forged a letter of consent from my father. When asked what I knew of the church, I proved beyond a doubt that I knew the holy texts by heart, quoting our own reverend’s sermons through the years, reciting the laws of the goddess’ creed. Within a week, I’d … I’d taken the vows. The night I was appointed minister, I met with my sister and her lover in secret, married them, and ran.

“My father would never have forgiven me for taking the vows. I had denied him a legacy and thrown away my title by joining the clergy. I’d married his only other progeny to a tailor’s son against his express wishes, insulted the would-be groom, and betrayed the duties of my birthright. But the marriage was binding, and our family was, thank Melitele, strong of faith. To deny a marriage under Melitele’s blessing would be to deny the goddess herself. My sister would be safe and happy.”

Jaskier sat upright again. He turned to Geralt with a smile. “Since I couldn’t go home again without risking getting caught by my father, I decided to travel the Continent, performing the marriages that would otherwise be frowned upon by the formal church. I may not live the life of a respectable minister, but my powers of matrimony are binding. I marry those whose inclinations are … shall we say otherwise inclined; contrary to the traditions of the faith.”

“Contrary,” Geralt repeated.

“To put it another way, there’s a reason you see two spinsters go into business together more often than one or three.”

“You marry women. And men. But not to each other.”

Jaskier nodded. “And, of course, those of feuding families, unwanted arranged marriages, and all the like. And I _do_ marry the more traditional couples. But there’s a reason a large part of the church in the west wishes to have me found, whether to hang me or excommunicate me, I haven’t got a clue. Would rather not find out either.”

Geralt lay back again, folding his hand behind his head thoughtfully. “You said you wished to be married someday,” he mused. “Is the trouble that you can’t set foot in a church without being caught? You could always find some minister willing to take a bribe, couldn’t you?”

Jaskier shook his head. He, too, lay back in the grass, staring up at the clouds above. “No. That _is_ one barrier, I suppose, but there are others. My vows, for a start.” He placed his hands on his chest, absently plucking at the buttons of his doublet. His voice was quiet when he spoke again. “The second is, I’m in need of a Brother Julian myself if I’m ever to marry, and I doubt if I should ever find another like me. Though it hardly matters. My vows would never allow it.”

“What vows did you take to become a minister? Not celibacy.”

Jaskier chortled. “Oh no, certainly not. The one consolation is that I may indulge in a fleeting love where I find it. It’s a technical oversight on the part of the scripture. Though really, it’s a pitiful consolation, being so impermanent. I content myself with knowing that my sister lives in marital bliss to this day. Ah, the sacrifices we make for those we love,” he sighed.

Jaskier turned slightly toward Geralt, fiddling with the grass between them. “When one becomes a priest or priestess of Melitele, they become her kin,” he explained. “We are Father and Mother, Brother and Sister to the people. Technically ‘Brother’ Julian is a Father. If I were to marry, I would be marrying one of my own children in the eyes of the church—at least, that is how the stories are told.

“There’s a passage in one of the holy texts wherein a Father wed against the will of Melitele and she stopped his heart beating before he could say his vows beneath the altar. It is said that this curse will affect anyone who wishes to marry any maid born of The Mother.

“Really, of all the religions to choose from, I _had_ to be born into the most cult-like of all the sects. There are other churches of Melitele that are more sensible! But _no,_ I had to become one of the cursed ministers to satisfy the law,” Jaskier complained. “The worst part is, whether by Melitele’s will or by some mage of old, there _is_ a curse upon the clergy. I saw it myself once. I performed a marriage for another minister who’d joined the church in desperation, another man fleeing the burdens of nobility. The moment he said the first word of his vows, he dropped dead upon the altar. I had to marry him to his lover in death. It was the hardest ceremony I’d ever conducted. She wept over him for hours after, inconsolable.”

Geralt rested a kind hand on his wrist. “I don’t think a sweet, merciful goddess would strike a man down for loving,” he said. “She’s a goddess of love. I would bet the creator of your sect inflicted the curse on their own. There are such people in this world.”

Jaskier turned up his hand, his thumb brushing against Geralt’s. “Either way, having taken the holy vows, I am bound to it. If I were to make a vow of love, I would be struck down.” He closed his eyes, the tips of Geralt’s fingers edging closer, tickling his palm. “I never expected to find a love I might keep. I was willing to sacrifice that chance, thinking it would never come. My sister had a love—a _strong, true_ love—and I could not trade a chance for anything so concrete. I love her very much, you know. She was so much younger than I; I felt like a father to her at times. I even took her name when I left, Buttercup, to remind me why I did what I had to do. I wanted us to stay a family, even as the two of us cast our family name aside.

“But lately …” Jaskier curled his fingers slowly around Geralt’s. He glanced at their closed hands and closed his eyes. “Lately I’ve had reason to resent my vows, though I can never regret them. If I might live long enough to be wed, I would still need someone to wed me to my love. I know of no others by any order who would marry the alternatively inclined. But I don’t need marriage. I’m happy to dance the line, never taking the next step. In fact, I’d be too afraid to try, goddesses, priests, and orders aside. I’d be too afraid of what … _he_ would think.”

Geralt looked at their joined hands. He was quiet.

As the clouds rolled overhead, Geralt gave Jaskier’s hand a squeeze. He tilted his head close and whispered, “Vesemir is ordained.”

Jaskier opened his eyes. He looked at Geralt, expression unreadable.

“Not of your sect, but of Melitele. He wished to read the last rites of those who would not survive the trials. But he can perform other services. If you ever find someone. He wouldn’t denounce the love of people like you … and I.”

Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heart picking up speed. He could feel it, pulse racing under his fingertips. All the while, he was achingly aware of Jaskier’s eyes upon him.

“… I would have to go to Kaer Morhen. To see Vesemir.”

“So you would,” Geralt agreed.

“I’ve never been there before. They wouldn’t let me in alone, I’m sure.”

Geralt stroked Jaskier’s knuckles with his thumb. “They’ll let you in when I bring you,” he assured him.

Jaskier smiled. _When._

“I’d still drop dead if I spoke a vow of love,” he said. “How would you break my curse?”

“Don’t have to. I’m not a _maid,_ nor am I born of Melitele. I died twice. Twice I was born of a mutated corpse at the hands of mages,” he answered. At last, he rolled over, hovering above Jaskier, their hands still joined in the grass below. “I think you would be safe, loving me. If you think you might like to try.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier sighed. “I’ve been loving you for a long time now.”

Geralt bent lower, their foreheads together. They breathed the same air, that choking barrier that had been between them banished so easily. “I’ve loved you long as well,” he whispered.

“Then do you have anything you wish to ask me?”

Geralt nodded, their noses bumping together. “Will you marry me? he asked.

Jaskier chuckled. “I think we might start with a kiss first. Let’s not be hasty, love.”

Geralt pinched his side for teasing. Jaskier squeaked and began to wriggle as Geralt pinched him again and again.

“Yes, fine! I’ll marry you!” Jaskier laughed.

“Do you promise?” Geralt teased.

“Yes!” Jaskier shrieked, batting his hands away. “I vow it!”

And with Jaskier’s heart still hammering excitedly in his chest, Geralt bent to kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! A half hour late, but I forgot it was Valentine's day until like 3pm. First thing I could think of was "oh shit, uuuuuh Jaskier's St. Valentine, go!" It's a bit more dialogue heavy than usual.
> 
> Originally, I was going to have Jaskier get caught and thrown in a cell to await sentencing, sneaking secret letters to Geralt and stuff before Geralt can bust him out, but I forgot about that and went straight for a no-stakes love confession. That's two one-shots in a row with that lol. There's enough drama in my other stories, it's fine. Sometimes we need something easy.


End file.
